


Wherein the Wife Does All the Work

by kayliemalinza



Series: Rambleverse [8]
Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Bondage, Dom/sub, Domestic, F/M, Kayliemalinza's Rambleverse, Light BDSM, McCoy POV, Pre-Academy Years (Rambleverse Timeline)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-10
Updated: 2010-07-10
Packaged: 2017-11-02 07:26:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/366466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayliemalinza/pseuds/kayliemalinza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They both have the afternoon off and the baby's at pre-school. They'd be foolish to waste the opportunity, regardless of the hot Southern weather.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wherein the Wife Does All the Work

It's a Tuesday afternoon in the middle of July and Leonard is sitting on the couch watching the stock car race with a beer. It's his day off—turns out they let you have days off once you finish your residency, almost as if you were a real person—but the baby's at pre-K so no Cheerio fights for him today. On the plus side, Josa's lurking around the house somewhere because she is a senior administrator and finished the finance report last night at 3am so she'll go home early if she damn well wants to.

There's a caution flag at the start of lap 324 and Josa yells from the bedroom, "Leonard!"

"What?" Leonard barks back.

"Bring your cock in here!"

"What for?" he yells, grinning while there's a chance that she won't see it.

"What do you mean _what for?_ " Josa slaps the door open so hard it bounces off the wall, rattling crankily before she quiets it with the decisive application of her behind. She's wearing her undershirt from this morning and a sensible pair of blue panties and nothing else, not even socks, because it's the middle of July and there's just no sense in wearing more clothes than you have to.

Leonard has never complained about this, not before the baby and definitely not after, when Josa stood in front of the mirror, poked at her saddlebags and snapped, "What the hell did you to do my body, _Leonard,_ " and the best response he could think of was to sink his teeth into the newly-bountiful globe of her ass and mumble, "Dunno, but I'll take it." Her response was to knock him backwards onto the bed with a granite thigh and show him that beneath all this new jiggly stuff was still the bundle of slick black electrical cord that he married.

She worked off a little of the fat in the months after but she'd already wasted two minutes adjusting her self-image and it'd just be annoying to have to do it again, so mostly all the curves stayed put. Leonard gives that development two thumbs up and sometimes, when he's laying cross-wise on Josa 'cause it's more comfortable than the bed after the baby jumped on it and broke the springs, he grabs himself a handful and says, "How 'bout getting this belly swole up again, huh?"

"How about you pay off your school loans, first," is the usual answer, although sometimes it's "How about _you_ have the baby next time, since your lazy ass won't go crazy on bedrest" and every once in a while she pushes his hand lower and says, "How about you remind me what made it swell up the first time."

Leonard generally agrees to that, but this afternoon Josa's got a queeny glare that he can't help but balk at even though the jumble of breasts atop her crossed arms is, in a word, tasty-lookin'. He heard her counting out push-ups earlier and sure enough, the neckline of her tank-top is jagged and dark, sweated up.

"It's my day off, woman," he says, at a normal volume this time because Josa insists that there's no need to yell if you can see each other. "I ain't doing no work."

She gives him maybe a second's consideration, eyebrows twisting together in the middle like a stitch drawn too tight, then disappears back into the bedroom. He mutes the TV and expects to hear the pointed whir of the big-head vibrator—the serious one, that plugs into the wall—and that would serve him right, but instead she walks back out, panties missing somewhere and a towel folded over her arm.

"You comfortable?" she asks, tossing the towel onto the couch next to him.

He pulls his ankle from under his knee and puts both feet on the floor, toes spreading out greedily on the cold wood. "Yeah," he says. He sneaks glances at the curlicue paisley of her pubis but mostly looks up, square into her face, because she's got a damn fine face and it's telling him a nice story right about now. There's a yellow stripe of sunshine down the left side of it, squirming through a gap in the curtains, and it lights up her eye and cheek and the corner of her lips and, when she steps a little closer, a single dreamlike inch of her collarbone.

Behind her, a stream of colored cars flash in and out of the concave slivers between her waist and the edges of the TV screen.

She puts the remote on the couch arm, then takes his beer and wedges it into the cushions, buried but for the neck jutting up like something obscene or a beaded ship's prow. "You just sit," she says. "You don't wanna work, then don't." She kneels in front of him and tugs at his belt, loosening it with a molasses kind of force, popping the jeans button with the bare movement of her knuckles and then gripping the sides of his fly. She peels them apart like the tender petals of a rose to make the zipper ratchet itself open.

He lifts a hand to touch her shoulder because he's in love with it—the easy crest of clavicle jutting out from the ball, the snuggly crease between deltoid and biceps, the beguiling highlight of brown that sinks into black—but Josa stops immediately, takes his wrist and puts it onto the cushion beside his hip. "No working, Leonard," she says in a soft, definite tone.

"Darlin'," he says. "Touching you ain't exactly _work_."

She shakes her head and grabs hold of his other hand, too. "No, Leonard," she says. Her fingers curl underneath, stroking the pulse points, then slip back atop and press his hands down in a professional manner. "Keep them there."

Leonard stares for a long moment at her hands. The sharp-edged fingers are some kind of symbol, dark ink against the parchment of his mid-summer dun, and she's asking a question. His heart rate picks up. He allows himself another moment of looking, squeezes his knees gently into the slope of her ribcage. He answers by lowering his head until the back of his neck is exposed, not feeling any different in the warmish air but still waiting for a kiss or a bite. "Yes ma'am," he says. Sweat prickles in the space between her skin and his.

His cock is half-hard, plump and curving like an animal in the vee of his fly. Josa pets it briefly, rubs through the weave of his underwear at the ridge where the head is just beginning to emerge from the foreskin. Her gaze is calculating—clinical if he's honest—and that shouldn't work him up the way it does but there's a Pavlovian thing going on here, especially as the next thing she does is slide her fingers under the waistband of his jeans and tug. "Lift up," she says.

"That's work," says Leonard. He's not meaning to be contrary (not anymore, leastways) but she did promise he wouldn't have to do anything.

Josa's lips go thin, saying clear as day that he may be right but he's still getting himself into trouble. Leonard is just fine with that, perfectly happy to go limp into the cushions as she wrestles his jeans down a few inches. The briefs are recalcitrant but she coaxes them down, too, pulling out his cock and laying it back down on the zipper.

There's still not much room to maneuver and Leonard knows that Josa ain't about to scrape her ass raw on the fly of his jeans. She squirms her hands back into the waistband and tugs again but his clothes aren't going over his rump without help. It's a matter of some concern but Josa's got a talent for getting things done.

She leans forward and licks at Leonard's cock in quick, thorough strokes, laving from tip to base to get him as erect as she likes. Leonard's fighting his eyelids. They've gone all heavy but he's got something worth looking at; not just the flashes of pink tongue but her look of concentration, too, and the clean line of her neck when it bends.

The conflict resolves itself when he's hard enough that she can suckle at the head without using her hands and he can't see her tongue anymore. It's hidden away inside her little cup of a mouth, flicking at the glans like she's telling a secret. Leonard closes his eyes and tilts his head back. The couch is secondhand, old before they got it, so he can feel the hard frame on the back of his neck and the pilled upholstery, rasping against the palms of his hands. Josa told him not to touch and he's trying so hard to be good, honest, and all that necessary restraint is why he's caught off-guard when Josa pulls back and blows cruelly on the tip of his cock.

Leonard yelps at the cold and his hips jerk up without volition. Josa snorts and he glances down, worried that he's poked her in the eye or something, but that's stupid of him because she has the reflexes of a cat or a grifter. She's sitting back on her heels, pulling his jeans and briefs over his knees and looking up at him with an unpleasant smirk.

"S'a damn dirty trick," Leonard accuses.

Her smirk shows teeth.

"I don't appreciate you taking advantage of my penis like that," he says, then licks his lips 'cause he's a goddamn liar.

Josa stands up. "Right now it's _my_ penis," she says, and Leonard don't fuss because she's climbing onto his lap and he is all sorts of happy about that. "I'll give it back when I'm done." Her forearm presses half-painfully against his collarbone and his face ends up in her cleavage when she grabs onto the back of the couch to lift herself up and forward, reaching below for his cock and guiding it in.

Leonard closes his eyes and enjoys the smush while he can. He don't dare put his lips on her or try to lick up the sweat from her skin. He groans, though, hoping she'll feel it where her belly is pressed against his chest.

Too soon she's situated and peeling her torso away from his. It's a teeth-gritting torment when she presses a hand on his knee for leverage and shifts around for a good angle. Leonard stares past her at the TV, cropped into a triangle by her shoulders, where something's on fire. He tries to make out what's happened in the race, whether a car spun out by itself or if there was a pile up, because if he pays too much attention to the delicious predicament of the cock he don't own anymore then he's gonna break the rules and grab onto Josa with both hands.

"Honey," he says. "Kiss me."

Josa snorts and starts up a fluid pistoning that makes use of all her body's luscious trigonometry. "You crazy, boy," she breathes out. "I just found the right angle." Her chest arches towards him, nipples two perfect small things beneath the ribbing of her tank-top.

Leonard makes a crumbled up little sound in the back of his throat that might be a whine. "Let me touch you, then," he says.

"Leonard." Josa's starting up with her warning tone now, but Leonard don't differentiate all that much between a threat and a promise when it comes to her, especially not as he can't think of a single thing she'd do him that he wouldn't end up liking in some kinda way. There's a few things she's not willing to do that he'd like plenty, too, but that's a long-term conversation and not something he wants to bring up right now.

On the other hand, "It's getting pretty difficult for me to restrain myself," he points out. His mouth is curling up with the particular flavor of smug that most-times makes her press her fingers into his jawbone just a little bit too hard. "I'm having to work awfully hard here not to touch you, and I may be mistaken, but it seems like that goes against your stipulation that I—"

He hushes up quick because she didn't waste any time. Her fingers ain't digging in like they usually do but her palm sits square across his mouth and shoves his lips against his teeth in a line of sweet hurt. "Get your belt," she says.

Leonard freezes like a cat caught by the automatic porch light so Josa repeats herself.

"Pull your belt out of your jeans and hand it to me." She shifts her weight off the hand gripping his knee and uses that hand to tug at his elbow and make him move.

It's a convoluted operation considering the staticky pulse in his ears and how his fingers have gone all thick and stupid, but he edges his arm forward just enough to find the crumpled up mess of his jeans. His belt is canvas, hard to tell apart from the denim, but he gets a discerning grip and starts to pull it out, one loop at a time like he's undoing his mamaw's crochet.

Josa gets her support arm back in position and starts rocking. There's no real thrust to what she's doing, just enough friction to keep her on the right physiological trajectory. She's leaking all over his balls and thighs, cum mixed together with the sweat trickling down the sagittal furrow of her belly. She slips but catches herself before it bends his cock too much, as conscientious a woman that anyone could ask for, and bites her lip.

The sight of those square white teeth against her peach-purple mouth is just too much for a mere mortal and he can't get his belt free anyway; Leonard drops what length of it he's wrestled out so far and pulls his wife up flush against him.

" _Leonard_ ," she says, not breathy but not all that adamant, either. Could be that's because Leonard is working at her left nipple with his teeth, tongue prodding against the cotton.

"Take this damn thing off," he pulls back to mutter. He shoves his hands up under the interloping tank top to slice open his palms on the borders of her scapulae.

"See, baby, this is why I gotta tie you up all the time," Josa chides, tugging his mouth off by way of a hand in his hair. She yanks up her shirt and tosses it someplace and he don't care about where, just so long as it don't come back. She cups her hand under his chin to tilt his face up. "You ain't got no damn self-control," she pronounces.

Leonard nuzzles away from her grip. He slurps a careless mea culpa into the hollow of her neck and slides his hands down to feel the muscles of her waist bunch and slither underneath the skin, to press finger-sized divots into the sweet flesh that gave him a baby. He bucks up.

"I thought you weren't going to do any work," Josa snaps, and shoves away from him with the heel of her palm like a rock against his shoulder.

"Josa," Leonard says, and he's not going to think about what he sounded like just then, twisting the name into five or six syllables and high-pitched like the baby when her nap's overdue.

"Shush," says Josa, and Leonard shushes because she's not messing around anymore. Her voice is rope in and of itself but she's snatching up the belt anyway. "Hold up your hands," she says.

It's a weird moment every time. Leonard hasn't quite figured out what's going on in his head but it's damn consistent the way he obeys immediately, hands trembling slightly with the wrists upturned.

Josa wraps the belt around them like she's twisting out long rolls of biscuit dough, swift and confident but gentle for all that. Leonard watches, barely breathing, entranced by the cresting of her knuckles beneath the skin and the dainty division of light and dark running up the sides of each finger.

Josa glances at him after she's fed the belt-end through the buckle and pulled it tight. "Jesus, Leonard, your face," she says.

Leonard don't know what to say to that. He don't remember how to talk anyways; the closest he gets is a thick-throated whimper when she pulls the belt-end taut like a leash. He yanks against it, tries to unwrap his wrists or pull the belt apart with sheer strength, but there's no leverage the way he's slouched down the couch. His cock twitches in frustration and Josa just flexes her belly. Swear to God she has the core strength of a packhorse and good balance besides. Leonard's building himself up into a frenzy and her smirk ain't helping.

Finally Josa places her palm against his heart. "Leonard," she says. "Breathe more slowly." She's gone cool with him, speaking Standard like it's a foreign language she'll be tested on. That's one thing Leonard regrets: not meeting her before she joined up with Starfleet and learned how to scrub the Alabama out of her voice.

"Slowly," she says again, rubbing her palm up and down in time to the breaths he should be making. He does the best he can and soon his vision stops crackling with gold and white. "Good," she says. She leans forward to kiss him closed-mouthed and they stay like that for a minute, her lips unmoving but soft against his and his chest still heaving, because maybe he's not about to pass out anymore but he's cranked up all the same.

Josa ain't unaffected either. She's still like a cat beneath a bush but she's got his hands pressed against her chest so he can feel her heartbeat through his fingers. She pulls at the wrapped-up gift of his hands and ends the kiss so she can hook his arms over the back of the couch.

The stretch is deep and fulsome along his triceps brachii, reaching even to the minnowed muscles on his ribs, lifting up his chest to her like she's reeling him in on a fishing line.

"Love you," he mumbles, now that she's given his mouth back.

She squeezes his elbows in answer.

Rucking up his shirt before she gets back to the business of fucking herself on his cock is a kindness in this heat, but if she's hoping to save on some laundry it's too late. He's sweated through it already, leaving stains beneath the arms and around the neckline and in ragged triangles beneath his pectorals. There's a patch on his belly, too, from where her sweat mixed with his.

He appreciates the hope of a breeze against his skin but he doesn't expect her to quit the job half-done, with the neck of the shirt stuck on his chin and the rest of it covering his face.

"No, darlin', no," he pleads, when too much time passes and he realizes that she means to keep it there.

"Shush," she says, drawing a map from his throat to his mouth and poking at the line of his teeth. She seeks out his sharpest canine tooth and hurts herself against it for a little while. "You're a pretty thing but I gotta make this easy for myself," she explains. Her voice is low and apologetic, like when she puts the baby to bed but the baby don't want to be put.

Leonard bites her as careful as he can, just enough to feel the knuckle. He hates how she hides from him sometimes, and how even when she don't she withdraws so far it's like watching her orgasm through a tunnel, but otherwise she gives him so much; it's sickenin' to haggle over this one thing. He lets go of her finger and nods.

Josa settles back into the mechanical solution she'd worked out in the beginning, one hand on his knee and the other on the back of the couch, between his head and his arm. Her wrist lies against his head and he turns into it, savors the hard line of her thumb against his temple.

The white tacky weave of his shirt is a softer blindfold than others they've devised but he closes his eyes anyway, just to pretend he can look at her if he wants. That's all the self-denial he can muster so his arms and wrists go off on their own volition, flexing greedily against the belt. It'd be damned rude of him to come before Josa's done with his erection (though in that case she'd promptly lay him out on the floor and make use of his mouth) but he's in danger of it, cresting closer with every flush she sends rolling through his body.

Lucky, then, that she's quick, or maybe he's just lost all sense of time. It seems like she's not gliding up and down him for but a few minutes before she squeezes her knees against his hips. She pants, she trembles, she expels the climax from her body like it takes a feat of strength.

Reverently, like he's in church, Leonard stays still while she drapes herself over him to rest a minute. She smooths her hands up either side of his face, taking the shirt with them like lifting a veil, and continues back. She lays her face next to his and lays her arms along his and tangles their fingers together.

The hollow beneath her ear is irresistible so he lips at it, fits his mouth to the ramus of her mandible. He can feel the pull of her skin when she smiles.

"You want your cock back?" she asks, and the thrum of it sends a shiver though his ear down to his crotch. He'd list the bundles and junctions of that particular nervous pathway but he's got better things to focus on just this minute.

"You ain't gonna put me away wet, are you?" he mumbles, and shifts himself enough that she has to hold to tight to keep from slipping off. He's drenched, ticklish from the sweat coursing over his ribs, and their thighs are practically swimming against each other. He makes a note to get them both a glass of water after this.

Josa slides back and hell, that's not a merciful expression on her handsome face. "I'll put you away however I want to," she says, and he knows that's purely for his benefit because Josa don't bother with threats when she could be making good on them instead.

Leonard can't even put up a token resistance. Instead he juts his hips up, chasing her cunt as she stands. The air hits his cock and he twists his mouth in a scowl, distracting himself with the sight of her tumescent labia and the sheets of viscous slick on her thighs. It don't help; Josa's gone from him now, an unconscionable distance of two feet away, and she's reaching for the towel she set aside earlier and scrubbing it efficiently between her legs.

"Why you always gotta clean everything," he says, intending to snap but it comes out pathetic instead, and she cocks her eye at him like a gun.

"Why you always gotta say something smart," she shoots back. Predictably, he's got something smart to say about that, but she shuts him up by swiping her fingers across her cunt and then across his mouth, leaving a trail of cum for him to taste at and to smell. She steps back to look at her handiwork, smug as anything.

Arms crossed like her breasts are puddings on a platter, hip cocked out like she's gonna put a baby on it, and Leonard can only look at the slant of her body for so long before he goes crazy. He snaps his hands down to soothe his cock with the rugged lines of his palms.

Josa comes forward in a flash to yank his hands up. She scratches her nails down his left thigh and four red lines bloom up, parallel and unrepentant.

He swallows his shout and says immediately, almost desperately, "I liked that."

"I know you like that," she says. Josa's smile is sly and warm, and Leonard is elated. He's wanted this for years, but Josa is consummately careful with the family that she claims; not soft, sometimes, but always considerate, even when the baby's throwing tantrums.

He wants to mumble _thank you, thank you, thank you_ but that might startle her like a skittish cat that's stuck one paw into the room. Instead he loves her without words and shivers when she draws her fingertips across the marks she made. He also sends a middle-finger salute to the father-in-law he's never met, a damn sumbitch and toxic ghost, the third wheel in their marriage.

But it's criminal to think about that now, when Josa's wrapping her fingers around his cock and gripping so tight that the muscles in her forearm bulge. She sets one knee into the couch cushion and leans over him without touching. She ain't even holding his hands skin-to-skin anymore, twisting the shirttail and the belt instead, but that's irrelevant: she skewers him with her eyes, tracks every breath and grimace as the climax flays him open.

He watches her watching him until his eyes tear up, transmuting everything from solid objects to ethereal suggestions: the shadowy swath of her body and sliced-up sunlight on its edges; pips of color from the TV screen; the scrawny splotch of the baby's favorite doll; star-like glints upon a darkened wall, from picture frames.

"Come on, baby," she murmurs as she jacks him tough and slow. He crests and retreats, undulating closer to his peak with every stroke, and when he gets close he goes still; he stops kicking at the tangle of jeans around his ankles and lets his hands hang limp from Josa's grasp.

The orgasm, when it happens, is like a massive sigh. Josa lowers his hands in time with the intermittent ejaculations and the whole of him feels like it has loosened at once: the soles of his feet are sinking into the floor, head and back and buttocks are sinking into the couch. His flesh is seeping into the marrow of his bones.

He must doze, because between one blink and the next his wrists are bare, wet and white like the underside of grits gone cold in the pot. The jeans are vanished, too, and more importantly, his wife. Leonard barely has time to twist his head to seek her in the shadows before she comes up behind him and dabs a wet towel across his upper lip.

"I gotta get at the cushions," she says. He grunts softly in response and twitches his belly when she goes to wipe it down, too. The upholstery vac was his idea, years ago, after a class on environmental pathologies. Josa makes fun of him for taking cultures from the baby's toys but good hygiene leads to good health, and everything about his baby girl is gonna be good. She don't need to sit on no nasty couch.

"I'll do it," he says, and he will, in a minute, when he don't feel like a piece of raw filet no more. He just can't move now, is all.

"Uh huh. Lazy," Josa says, voice all thick with something she calls done-with-you and he calls love. She takes him by the chin and shakes his head a little, then a little more when he can't help but smile. "You want your beer?"

"Water," he says. "Get you some, too."

She hands him a glass over the back of the couch a minute later as he's watching a rookie nudge into first on the final lap. She sets the vacuum on the cushions next to him and sashays herself into the bedroom without even a backwards look 'cause she's gotten her exercise for the day and that's that. The shower cuts on just as the winner's popping champagne in Victory Lane.

Leonard looks at the clock over the TV and thinks, if he gets this couch clean real quick, he can hop in the shower with Josa. He'll soap her back but not distract her more than that, because they gotta hurry to get the baby from pre-K.

The baby likes it when they both show up. She smiles her little girl smile and grabs onto both their hands so they can swing her up over the curb, safe from the grass in the cracks and crooked sticks and piles of moss laying down like dead animals. The sun glances off car hoods like a knife and they'll protect her from that, too, their shadow-bodies melting together.


End file.
